


The Third Death

by Autor_Moriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, M/M, No Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 10:56:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3567104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autor_Moriarty/pseuds/Autor_Moriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are three deaths: the first is when the body ceases to function.  The second is when the body is consigned to the grave.  The third is that moment, sometime in the future, when your name is spoken for the last time. Jim Moriarty waits for Sherlock Holmes to let him go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off of a concept from the book Sum: Forty Tales from the Afterlives by David Eagleman. An excerpt from this particular story can be read here: http://www.eagleman.com/sum/excerpt.

It was once suggested that there are three deaths.

The first is when the body ceases to function. On the fourteenth of June, 2012, Jim Moriarty died for the first time. It was all very sudden and unexpected. His body had been healthy. His mind had been working at peak performance. But sometimes things like that just happen. No one really paused and wondered why.

The second is when the body is consigned to the grave. This happened a couple of days later, on a cloudy day with Sherlock Holmes and Mycroft Holmes watching as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Mycroft was relieved and made a point to tell Sherlock so. Sherlock didn’t say much of anything and simply planned in his head his journey to unravel the empire. Already his head was starting to hurt from lack of stimulation. Well, one person paused and wondered, but in the whole scheme of things, one person is hardly significant.

The third death is that moment, sometime in the future, when one’s name is spoken for the last time.

Until the third death, you wait in the lobby.

Jim Moriarty waited. Not many people knew him despite having worked for him, but those that recognized his name were wary and as a result there was always a circle of empty seats around his own, a foreboding air about him. When he made his way over to the snack table just for some relief from his throbbing headache caused by boredom, people casually drifted away and conversations petered out until he shuffled back to his lone seat, pale hands cupping a coffee, eyes empty and ringed with dark circles. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was supposed to be over.

Periodically, names were called over the loudspeakers to indicate a person was now finally dead and was expected to move through the doors to whatever came next. Jim, like many others, listened attentively for his name, desperate to move on from this purgatory.

The problem was that someone remembered him. As time passed and his name faded from the public’s memory, one person kept it tucked away in the recesses of his mind and kept Jim bound without even realizing.

There are two types of people. The ones who want to leave and the ones who don’t. Usually, the first are those whose names are committed to history and the second are those whose names are announced just as their loved ones arrive.

Jim Moriarty was in the unlucky position of being both.

He waited for years, numb and praying to let go, but when it finally came, he hadn’t anticipated it would be quite like it was.

 

Sherlock Holmes arrived. He had some silver streaks in his hair and a few more scars and wrinkles, but other than that, he was the same arrogant bastard as ever.

The moment Jim caught sight of him, his world stopped. Sherlock was here. Sherlock was older and wearing that stupid hat and he was dead but he was here. Jim was so stunned that he didn’t even pick up on his own name being called, just feeling his throat closing up with joy. This was what he’d been waiting for. He didn’t need to be in pain anymore because Sherlock would understand him and help him. He was free.

Sherlock hear Jim’s name. He mouthed the words as he blinked up at the ceiling, trying to figure out exactly what had happened. There had been a flash of light and then…  
The bomb had exploded then. He hadn’t figured out how to shut it off. Part of him expected John to start tell him off for expecting there to be a switch on every single one he came across, but when he looked over his shoulder at the man, he just seemed too lost to start lecturing. Good.

James Moriarty. Why on earth were they announcing his name?

Sherlock looked around again and his eyes went wide when he caught sight of Jim, brow furrowing as he noticed the expression on his face. He’d risen to his feet, actual tears rolling down his cheeks as the weight of what had happened finally came to him. Sherlock was dead. And his name was being repeated over the speakers. It was the moment he’d been waiting for. Sherlock had been remembering him. But now he had to leave and Sherlock wasn’t coming with him. He wasn’t free.

Jim’s vision became too blurred and in a moment, Sherlock was at his side, pulling him into an actual hug, more of an acknowledgement than he’d even gotten from his parents when he’d arrived, and he began to shake harder, hiding his face in Sherlock’s chest as he sobbed silently. Why couldn’t they have been forgotten together? Why did he need to move on when the only person who could bring him relief from his own mind was finally here?

Sherlock didn’t understand immediately, but when Jim finally stuttered out a few words of explanation and he gathered the rest from the guards that stopped a few feet away, his heart dropped.

He’d hoped Jim was alive for the longest time. He’d bartered and regretted and mourned. He’d continued to visit Jim’s grave marked with his own name and ignored John’s jokes that he did it because he was obsessed with himself. And now that he was finally with him…

Sherlock waited a long time in the room. John sat with him and sometimes talked about different things, wondering if his daughter was happy, if Mary had moved on, or just reminiscing about his life. Sherlock rarely spoke, but he did appreciate John’s attempts to make him feel better. After all, he’d lost people too. It wasn’t like Sherlock was the only one suffering.

Eventually Mary came. Then their daughter. John left with them after a long hug from Sherlock, promising him in a shaky voice that they’d see each other again soon. Sherlock nodded slightly and forced a hopeful smile even though he didn’t believe it. He’d become too big. He might never leave.


	2. Epilogue

It took nearly a century for Sherlock to be forgotten. The final member of his group of fans died and Sherlock blinked against the fluorescent lights as his name was announced. Once he'd collected himself, he stood and confidently strode to the nearest door with a purpose, the same one Jim had gone through all those years ago even though they all led to the same place, knowing full well that he was being a little sentimental but not letting the thought stop him.

He was slammed into at full force once the doors closed behind him and barely managed to keep his balance as Jim crushed him in his arms, making up for all their time apart. Sherlock's knees almost buckled as his heart ached with joy, that slight scratch of stubble against his cheek, that expensive cologne, the warm cashmere coat under his fingertips. It felt like coming home.

Sherlock eventually had to pull back to look at Jim's face just to reassure himself that it was real, wiping away the shorter man's tears with his thumbs and smiling brightly when he finally closed the distance and pressed their mouths together. It was sloppy, Jim was panting and they were both crying and their lips were all over the place but it didn't matter because to Jim, it was perfect. He was saved.


End file.
